


gods in a narrow prison (and I alone escaped)

by crestofthebeholding



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: (I am EXTREMELY glad that is an extant tag. because he is.), Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Pale King is a Bad Parent (Hollow Knight), Unreliable Narrator, canon-typical child abuse, more warnings in the notes bc Hoo Boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27467194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crestofthebeholding/pseuds/crestofthebeholding
Summary: The Hollow Knight never considered their childhood to be that unusual.  Those who see it tend to disagree.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 89





	gods in a narrow prison (and I alone escaped)

**Author's Note:**

> Elaborated content warnings, because I couldn't figure out how to tag this: unreliable and wavering narrator due to long-term emotional neglect and attachment issues, the general unreality of flashback dreams while you're already physically ill, deliberate exposure to sensory overload, rejection-sensitive dysphoria, self-destructiveness and desperation, references to the Unfun Physical Sensations of having a raging infection as well as the Unfun Physical Sensations of failing at the White Palace Obstacle Course, and emotional outbursts by the point-of-view character. Hopefully that's everything that isn't covered by the main tags. Basically, anyone who has experience with prolonged childhood trauma should read with caution.
> 
> Loosely inspired by FeralPhoenix's [a mimir two mimir we mimir you mimir](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26298400), in that I read it and this immediately came out when I started to write. Title also veeery loosely inspired by an English translation of Shitoo's [Pray or Be Desperate](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6wamxZ5Sgg).

All things considered, the Hollow Knight doesn't think their training was that bad. Painful, of course, and exhausting, but fruitful in the end. After all, they are a weapon at heart; they needn't worry about pain so long as it hones them. Compared to their kingdom, to the lives of a swarm of bugs they've never met, the pierce of sharp edge through shade is nothing. The pulse of Infection is nothing, the heat filling their head to its seams is nothing, the strange half-dreaming blur of past and present is nothing.

The risk of getting the void of their body sliced isn't the worst part of their training. It's the  _ noise _ , the hideous unbearable  _ grinding _ of dozens of sawblades. The noise echoes in the ill-fused planes of their mask, until they feel like they've taken the scythe of a Kingsmould to the eye. Carefully, they cross their arms behind them, mimicking their father's poise and suppressing a betrayal of their body. One hand catches on nothing. Right. The limb they lack buzzes with impossible, evanescent sensation.

"Go on," Father says, his gaze focused downwards at their feet.

The Hollow Knight makes to object, to gesture at the passageway the King expects them to traverse. Even without the saws, it would be barely high enough for them to stand in; including the blades, even someone of the King's height would have no chance. But they have no arm to gesture without relinquishing their nail, and no voice to raise an objection.

"Is there a problem?" the Pale King asks, in a tone that silently follows itself:  _ We're both aware there isn't. No need to tarry like a petulant child; you're better than that.  _ They shake their head. "Go on, then."

It won't work, and they know it. It would be madness to expect another Vessel to make it through this gauntlet. Expecting it of them, with their unnaturally-grown limbs and distorted proprioception, borders on cruel. The Hollow Knight could never find the strength to ask someone to attempt it, let alone issue a command.

They're going to manage it anyways. Somehow.

Their first step is shaky; the Infection in their chest throws their balance far forward. The second knocks their head directly into a blade. A moment of darkness, the ground very rudely tackling them, their vision flickering back to the hem of a white robe.

"Again," Father says, and the Hollow Knight dutifully finds their feet. They remember this, remember the exact path that satisfied their father. A vault over the pit of thorns, a narrow jump threaded between two Wingmoulds, a scramble up a wall threaded with cracks and spear-points. Above, a handful of small, shiny pieces of glass, delicate enough to shatter if they slip or stumble. After dozens of attempts, pressing a surviving trinket into the King's hand.  _ Good, Vessel _ , the two words they adore strung together on the voice of the person they admire most.  _ Again. _

(They remember that the saws above their head existed solely as exposure, as an attempt to break them of their habit of flinching at high-pitched noises. Unfortunately for them, it didn't take.) 

Their height is the main problem, they decide. When they stoop, the weight of their head overbalances them off a ledge. The quick prick-pierce-white-pain of thorns, the whiplash of Void rushing back to stability, cold smooth stone under their trembling legs. 

They make the mistake of looking up, and the Pale King's eyes hit them like a knife. Missing the pulsating heat across their body, it settles deep in their core, ice crawling across their being like Mother's roots. 

It's far more of a deterrent than the noise or the pain. They throw themselves out three times more in succession. Three attempts, three failures that pierce the shadow of their body, three sharp words from the King. The only thing that stops them is the leak of the Void at their joints, the threat of falling apart entirely, the need to drop to a knee and pull themself together. It only lasts a few trembling moments, just long enough to let the mingling gifts of God and Void wash over their being.

And nothing comes. The warmth of Soul bubbles in the nicks of their mask, but the Void ignores their call to heal the weakened threads holding their body together. 

This isn't right.  _ They _ aren't right. The icy-cold hand that seizes at their innards only proves it.

Something prods into their consciousness, foreign, curious more than concerned, exploratory more than intrusive. It watches for a moment, scrutinizing, and a pulse of rage grazes them:  _ THIS is the Wyrm's excuse for childrearing?  _ It's a thought that sears—not the rage or the Light behind it, but the very idea that someone could glean doubt or fault from their mind. It's unconscionable. It's unforgivable. It's—

The Knight jolts awake, the chains around them so heavy that they barely move. Their body sags, sighs, until they're once again suspended in the air like an inert pupa. The bubble of Light rolls down the cracked side of their face, a tear shed on their behalf without their input.

The chains hide their show of weakness, the tremble of their limbs and the bow of their head as they try to hide. Never mind that there's no one to see, no one but the Light and the doubt that live inside them—both foreign, both their responsibility to contain.

They're sorry, they're sorry, they're  _ sorry. _


End file.
